


11 Months.

by TheStoriesWeLoveBest



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adlock, F/M, Multichapter, Post-Reichenbach, set during the hiatus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-15 16:50:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11235162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStoriesWeLoveBest/pseuds/TheStoriesWeLoveBest
Summary: He had spent two years dead, and eleven months with her.Of all that he would miss, ironic that might seem to yearn for something of that time, stood out the sunrises they had shared.





	1. December.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> Welcome to my new fanfiction!  
> Thank you for your reading, please, leave kudos and comentaries!
> 
> Disclaimer: the characters doesn't belong to me, but to their creatures.  
> Rated T because of strong words.

December 1st.

By then it had been seven months since the British newspapers had announced his death, and a week after he'd ended Moriarty's influences in Italy, the easiest part of that mission, or so Mycroft had told him when he had provide him with all the information about hist archenemy's network.

Italy, being the easiest, had not been easy at all, and by the time his plane landed in Dublin, he had three broken ribs in the process of healing, and an untreated sprain in his right wrist.

If anyone at the airport had noticed him, he would not have related him to Sherlock Holmes: he had cut his hair, so that his characteristic curls did not finish, and he had dyed blond, which remember his of his childhood, the time before his hair had completely darkened.

He did not expect to find her in Ireland, The Woman was supposed to be in Copenhagen, playing to have too much power and win out after misbehaving, so he lost concentration on seeing her at the airport, sitting in a café, nothing to drink before her, hidden behind huge sunglasses, being too much herself to be safe.

She rose as their eyes met, and she approached him with safe and light steps. She wore heels, a newly purchased dress, and a coat more expensive than he could deduce. But of her physique there was nothing more he could get, he did not know why she was there, or where she lived, nothing except that she seemed ready to approach him.

She moved close enough to him so that, without taking off her sunglasses, he could appreciate the color of her eyes, which was not exactly accurate in his Mental Palace. She did not greet him, or stop before him, but went on her way outside the airport and occupied a black Sedan parked next to the taxi area. He felt invited to follow, adjusting the backpack that he carried by luggage on his back before following in her footsteps.

He got into the same car, heard her order a couple of orders to the driver, using an Irish accent that did not suit her at all, and waited until the center of the city was near to cross a few words with her.

If he had asked how she knew he was there, he would have been disappointed by the answer, for he already knew it: one of her contacts had assured him that the fomer dead Sherlock Holmes had in fact taken a plane to Dublin. And if they had asked where they were going, the disappointment would have been the same: to a safe house.

So he asked the only question to which he could never find a solution:

-Why?

She smiled, with that hint of fun and superiority he'd seen earlier, on Baker Street, believing he'd won with the replica of her phone.

"I do not like having debts with anyone, Mr. Holmes."

"You have no debts with me, Woman."

"Consider it, then, as a thank-you for taking Moriarty out of the game."

He knew what she had without asking, information about the network he was so hard working to destroy, firsthand information from the time when she had belonged to it.

"What do you want in return, Woman?"

The car stopped at a traffic light, she took off her sunglasses, revealing that familiar look.

"Do I have to want something in return?"

"You always want something."

"I want to go with you," she replied.

"Why?" He asked, frowning at that. Why was she going to risk her safety, what did she gain from all this?

"He fucked my life too, Mr. Holmes."

No. Her life had been fucked up by the game, the aspiration for more. Himself, in a way.

"Do not lie. Tell me the truth," he demanded, with the arrogance that only Sherlock Holmes could possess. She looked away before answering, replacing her sunglasses as well.

"Your death has already covered the covers of the newspapers once, there is no need for a second one, right?

The arrogance came back to his, smiling as she had smiled in Karachi, that time she was the one at his side when he needed her most.

"Did you cry when you read it?"

Irene did not answer. The car stopped at any house in a neighborhood north of the city. She got out of the car, and he had to cross the space in three quick strides to catch her by the door.

It was cold in Dublin, typical for the time he was in, and the whole neighborhood was decorated for Christmas. Irene opened the door with a key without a key chain, entered the house and turned on all the lights on the lower floor. There was a Christmas tree by the television, and postcards of children glued to the refrigerator.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, "she said, withour looking at him. "You're not dead. Let's have dinner."


	2. January.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> Thank you for your reading, please, leave kudos and comentaries!
> 
> Disclaimer: the characters doesn't belong to me, but to their creators.  
> Rated T because of strong words.

January 2nd. 

Being together was a threat to their destinies, the more time he spent with her, the more certain he was. Escaping him alone when the situation was complicated was simpler and more practical than waiting for her. Escaping only from his enemies, not counting her enemies, who often used to match, was faster and more practical too. 

He still had the marks of her teeth on his neck, and he wondered, for the first time, what would happen if that did not end well, if a bullet strayed, if they ended up being inert bodies in any dirty alley? He could almost assume that that was going to be his end, but that of The Woman? What was the point? Could he truly allow that to happen? 

if she died, it would only be his fault. The thought made his sick.

The water fall in the bathroom of the shared hotel room, she would not take more than a few minutes to leave, only wrapped in the towel, preparing to find the appropriate dress to chase its enemies all over Innsbruck. He stepped back from his reflection in the mirror, and took his eyes off from the marks on his neck, pulled on his woolen cap and put the stolen pistol inside his jacket.

She left the bathroom, letting the Austrian sunset draw lines on her skin, smooth skin that made his lose his head, forget the mission and want to focus on touching her.

He forgot his fears when he saw her dressed, they were renegade in the back of his Mental Palace while he undress her, and he recovered them while he waited for her to get dressed again, sitting on the bed, managing to contain his desire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too short, right? I know. The next ones will be longer, I promess.


End file.
